Price  25  Cents 


OUT  IN  THE  STREETS 


A  Temperance  Play  in  Three  Acts 


III. CHARLES  n  SERGEL   PRE5. 


NO   PLAYS   EXCHANGED.          NO    PLAYS    SENT    ON    APPROVAL. 


OUT  IN  THE  STREETS 


in 


BY 
S.  N.  COOK 

l*thor  ff/u  The  Wanderer's  Return,"  "Broken  Promise*?  M  Unclt 
Jack"  etc.,  etc. 


CHICAGO 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


OUT   IN   THE  STREETS, 


DRAMATIS   PERSONJE. 

COLONEL  WAYNE. 
SOLOMON  DAVIS. 
MATT  DAVIS,  his  son. 
DR.  MEDFIELD. 
PETE. 

POLICEMAN. 
MRS.  WAYNE. 
NINA  WAYNE. 
MRS.  BRADFORD. 

MINNIE,  her  daughter,  six  years  old. 
Time  of  presentation — one  hour.     Costumes — modem. 


PROPERTIES. 

ACT  I. — SCENE  I. — Table  and  cover,  c.  Old-fashioned  arm-chair, 
L.  Sofa,  R.  Chairs.  SCENE  II.— Cigar.  SCENE  III.— Poor  furniture. 
Table.  Two  or  three  chairs.  Old  couch. 

ACT  II. — SCENE  I. — Basket.  Tin  money.  Revolver.  Door  stepa 
to  house.  Walking  stick  for  Colonel  Wayne.  Snow.  SCENE  II.— 
Table.  Chairs.  Lounge.  Easy  chair. 

ACT  III.— SCENE  I.— Same  as  Scene  II.,  Act  II.  Pistol  with  cap 
on  only.  A  horse  .pistol.  SCENE  II. — Horse  pistol.  SCENE  III.— 
Furniture  same  as  Scene  I.,  Act  III. 


OUT  IN  THE  STREETS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Room  neatly  furnished  at  the  residence  of  Col. 
Wayne  ;   the  Colonel  discovered  asleep  on  sofa  R. 

Enter  Pete  L. 

Pete.  Golly,  de  ole  man's  asleep  as  usual,  and  I've  got  dem 
boots  to  black.  An'  a  nice  job  it  is  too — mos'  a  side  o'  leather 
in  each  one.  I  wish  sometimes  de  old  man  would  sleep  all  de 
hours  'round — I  wouldn't  have  so  much  to  do,  an'  I  wouldn't 
hear  him  storm  around  so.  Sometimes  he  makes  me  git  home- 
sick to  git  back  to  ole  Norf  Car'lina,  'specially  when  he  git  mad 
an'  raises  Cain  to  tan  my  black  hide  with,  as  he  calls  it.  I  guess 
I  won't  wake  him  up  if  I  sing  something. 

SONG. 

Gone  are  de  days  when  my  heart  should  know  no  pain, 
Gone  are  my  friends  from  the  cotton  fields  again, 
Gone  from  this  earth  to  a  better  land,  I  know, 
1  hear  their  gentle  voices  calling,  "  Old  Black  Joe." 

CHORUS. 

I'm  coming  !     I'm  coming  !     My  head  is  bending  low, 
I  hear  their  gentle  voices  calling,  "  Old  Black  Joe." 

[Commences  to  repeat  chorus,  when  Colonel  speaks.] 

Col.  Wayne.  [Rises,  and  comes  forward  R.  loudly.^  Yes, 
and  I'm  coming  !  Eh  !  What's  that  ?  [Sees  Pete.]  Oh,  it's 
you,  you  cuss,  is  it  ?  What  do  you  mean,  you  black  scoundrel, 
to  come  into  my  presence  with  such  a  noise  as  that  ?  Don't 
you  know  this  is  my  hour  for  taking  a  nap  ? 

Pete.     No,  sah,  I  takes  my  naps  at  night. 

Col.  W.  None  of  your  impudence,  sir.  What  do  I  care 
when  you  sleep,  so  that  it's  not  at  a  time  when  you  should  beat 

3 


2055225 


4  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

work.     Now,  don't  address  me  impudently  again,  sir,  if  you  do, 
I'll  cane  you  till  your  own  mother  wouldn't  know  you. 
Pete.     [Aside.]     Maybe  he  wouldn't  be  able. 

Enter  Mrs.  Wayne,  R. 

Mrs.  W.  [L.  B.]  I  wish  you  would  lower  your  voice,  Colonel 
Wayne,  I  do  think  you  can  be  heard  three  squares  away  ;  a 
man  of  your  position,  quarrelling  with  a  negro  servant  in  that 
manner,  ridiculous  ! 

Pete.  Yes.  mum,  it's  ridiculous !  [Aside. \  He'd  better 
quarrel  with  his  wife  ! 

Mrs.  W.     Pete,  leave  the  room. 

Pete.     Yes,  missus. 

CoL  W.     Or  I'll  break  your  head  with  my  cane. 

Pete.  [Aside.]  Golly,  he  might  break  his  cane.  [Laughs 
and  exits  L.] 

Mrs.  W.  Jasper,  you  must  control  your  temper  ;  you  are 
getting  worse  every  year.  You  roar  around  here  sometimes 
like  a  hurricane  ;  even  Pete,  when  your  back  is  turned,  calls 
you  "Old  Massa  Hurricane." 

Col.  W.  [R.  C.]  I'll  hurricane  him,  the  walnut  colored,  cop- 
per faced,  grinning  jackanapes. 

Mrs.  W.  There  you  go  again.  You  fume  and  storm  around, 
and  get  so  excited  that  not  a  person  about  the  house  has  a 
chance  to  say  a  word. 

Col.  W.  [Laughing.]  So  you  never  get  a  chance  to  say  a 
word  whenever  you  feel  like  it,  Mrs.  Wayne. 

Mrs.  W.  Oh  !  I  understand  that  fling — the  old  stereotype 
sarcasm  that  men  always  use  when  they  want  to  say  something 
particularly  smart  about  women  talking  incessantly.  I  am  not 
one  of  that  class  of  women.  But  I  can  assure  you  of  one  thing, 
Colonel  Wayne,  and  that  is,  I  should  be  much  happier,  and  you 
would  render  yourself  more  genteel,  if  you  were  less  boisterous. 
If  you  were  only  like  Mr.  Davis  ;  he's  a  perfect  gentleman. 

Col.  W.     Davis  !  DAVIS  !     Do  you  mean  Sol  Davis  ? 

Mrs.  W.  [Imitates.]  "Sol  Davis."  How  does  that  sound  ? 
I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Mr.  Wayne.  How  does  he  speak  of  you  ? 
Always  as  Colonel  Jasper  Wayne. 

Col.  W.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  No  doubt  of  it !  Yes,  he  has  excellent 
qualifications  ;  one  thing  in  particular  ;  the  art  of  imitating  my 
handwriting. 

Mrs.  W.  [Going  uf  to  him  and  speaking  in  a  marked  man- 
ner^ I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  mean. 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  5 

Col.  W.  \_Imitates  same  tone  and  manner.]  I  don't  propose 
to  do  it. 

Mrs.  W.  Let  me  tell  you  what  /think  about  the  matter.  I 
am  surprised  that  you,  my  husband,  should  stoop  to  slander  a 
gentleman— a  gentleman  above  reproach — and  one  who  is 
always  courteous  in  the  presence  of  ladies  ;  of  ladies,  Colonel 
Wayne.  How  do  your  actions  at  times  compare  with  his,  I 
would  like  to  know  ? 

Col.  W.  Thunder  and  Mars,  madamj  Will  you  insult  your 
own  husband  by  taking  the  part  ot  that  infamous  scoundrel  and 
perfumed  villain,  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing,  a  black-hearted 
hypocrite,  that 

Mrs.  V7.  Go  on,  go  on  ;  heap  up  your  abuse.  You  win  my 
esteem  by  such  conduct.  [Laughs  satirically.] 

Enter  Nina  L. 

Col- W.  Marriage!  Fiddlededee  !  Thunder  and  lightning  ! 
Nitro  glycerine,  or  dynamite,  where's  the  difference,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  [  Walks  up  and  down,  enraged.} 

Nin.      [R-]     Papa,  what,  excited  again  ! 

Col.  W.  [C.]  Again  !  I  suppose  you  mean  by  that,  that 
I  am  in  the  habit  of  getting  excited.  Do  you  hear,  Mrs. 
Wayne  ?  I'm  looked  upon  in  this  house  as  an  excitable 
old  curmudgeon,  that  no  one  can  live  in  peace  with  ?  \Laughs 
discordantly.  J 

Nin.  Oh,  no,  dear  papa,  not  at  all,  but  you  will  get  excited 
sometimes,  you  know,  and  say  things  you  don't  mean.  [Mrs. 
Wayne  sits  L.] 

Col.  W.  Perhaps  I  do  !  But  I  never  say  more  than  1  mean 
when  I  speak  of  Solomon  Davis.  [They  sit  R.  B.] 

Nin.  Solomon  Davis  !  Do  you  mean  that  solemn  looking 
old  sinner  who  calls  here  sometimes. 

Mrs.  W.  [L.J  My  daughter,  are  you  not  ashamed  to  speak 
so  disrepectfully  of  a  gentleman  of  whom  you  know  nothing  ? 

Nin.  Know  nothing  ?  I  guess  I  know  something,  and  that 
something  not  tending  to  his  good.  How  does  he  treat  the  poor 
who  live  in  his  old  tumble-down  shells  of  houses  ?  I  hate  such 
a  man — ugh  ! 

Mrs.  W.  Nina,  you  will  soon  rival  your  father  in  trying  to 
keep  this  house  in  an  uproar.  Do  try  to  govern  your  temper. 

Nin.  I  do,  mamma — I  think  I  am  a  perfect  specimen  of 
humility  and  meekness. 

Mrs.  W.     Yes,  about  as  meek  as  your  father. 

Col.  W.     Ah,    there's   another  dig — she   can't  let  me    rest. 


6  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Nina,  you  spoke  of  Davis  mistreating  some  of  the  poor  who 
lodge  in  his  old  coops — explain  the  facts. 

Nin.  Well,  you  know,  papa,  that  I  believe  in  people  being 
charitable  in  building  colleges  and  asylums,  and  in  trying  to 
convert  the  Fejee  Islanders,  the  Hottentots,  and  all  that,  and  at 
the  same  time  I  believe  in  looking  after  the  needy  in  our  own 
midst.  So  following  out  the  idea,  I  have  called  frequently  at 
one  of  Mr.  Davis'  dilapidated  palaces,  and  have  there  witnessed 
sights  that  ought  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone  ;  but  it  doesn't  affect 
Mr.  Davis  any  more  than  it  would  a  plaster  cast  of  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  There  is  one  family  which  I  am  particularly  inter- 
ested in,  a  widow  lady  and  her  little  girl.  And  now,  by  the 
way,  I  have  come  to  what  I  wish  to  say  about  Mr.  Davis.  One 
day  when  I  called,  Mrs.  Bradford  was 

Col.  W.     Who  ? 

Nin.  Please  don't  interrupt  me,  papa.  Ask  your  questions 
when  I  finish  my  story.  I  said  Mrs.  Bradford  was  out.  I  had 
a  few  oranges  and  buns  with  me,  which  I  gave  the  child.  The 
poor  little  sick  thing  cried  for  joy,  while  she  told  me  her  mother 
could  not  buy  her  anything  like  them  any  more,  as  all  the  money 
she  got  had  to  go  to  that  man  Davis,  and  if  she  did  not  have 
the  money  for  him  when  he  called  he  would  scold  her  and  swear 
at  her,  and  say  he  would  turn  her  into  the  streets.  I  wish  he 
had  called  while  I  was  there.  I  had  a  few  words  to  say  to  him 
that  he  would  have  remembered  for  awhile. 

Enter  Pete  L. 

Fete.  [L.]  Mr.  Davis  is  downstairs  and  sends  his  imple- 
ments, and  'quests  a  interview  wid  Massa  Col.  Wayne,  Esquire. 

Nin.     Compliments  you  mean,  Pete. 

Pete.     Yes,  missee. 

Col.  W.     Show  him  up.     [Pete  tows  and  exit  L.] 

Nin.     Talk  about  the  old  gentleman  and  he  soon  appears. 

Mrs.  W.     Nina,  we  had  better  retire. 

Nin.  Yes,  I  don't  wish  to  meet  the  gentleman.  \Exeuut 
Urs.  Wayne  and  Nina  R.J 

Enter  Pete  L.,  showing  in  Mr.  Davis. 

Pete.     [Bowing.}     Mr.  Davis,  sah.     [ExifL.} 
Dav.      [L.]     Colonel  Wayne,  I  am  happy  to  see  you  looking  so 
well  to-day.     I  often  think  that  I  see  but  few  men  of  the  present 
day  who  look  so  well.     I  have  remarked  to  my  son  frequently, 
that  you  remind  me  of  one  of  Napoleon's  marshals. 

Col.  W.     [R.]     Shut    up   such    tomfoolery.      What   do   you 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  7 

mean  by  talking  in  that  manner  to  me  ?  If  you  have  called 
here  on  business,  make  it  known  immediately. 

Dav.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Colonel  Wayne,  I  humbly  beg  your 
pardon.  I  would  not  for  the  world  offend  a  man  that  I  respect 
as  I  do  you.  A  man  the  world  looks  up  to,  a  man  whose  life 
has  been  one  unceasing  effort  to  elevate  his  fellow  man,  a  man 
who 

Col.  W.  There  you  go  again  !  You  contemptible  hypocrite, 
what  do  you  mean — what  favor  do  you  expect  to  gain  by  this 
fawning  ? 

Dav.  I  assure  you,  Colonel  Wayne,  that  I  meant  no  flattery, 
but  to  your  peculiarly  sensitive  nature,  I  see  my  remarks  are 
obnoxious.  I  stand  corrected. 

Col.  W.  You  will  go  down  corrected,  too,  and  very  quickly, 
I  can  tell  you,  [shakes  his  fist]  if  you  repeat  your  offence. 
Proceed  with  your  business. 

Dav.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Colonel  Wayne,  that  I  am  unpre- 
pared, lo-day,  to  pay  you  the  usual  amount.  Many  of  my  tenants 
have  failed  me,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  give  when  I  have 
not  got  it. 

Col.  W.  I  am  not  worried  so  much  about  the  money,  sir,  as 
I  am  about  the  course  I  have  pursued  in  this  matter.  I  feel  guilty 
that  I  have  consented  to  let  your  contemptible  fawning  pass 
unpunished. 

Dav.  Oh,  Colonel,  I  beg  of  you  do  not  expose  me.  I  know 
how  kind  you  are — what  a  noble  man  you  are. 

Col.  W.  Let  me  hear  another  word  ot  your  fulsome  flattery, 
and  rilsummon  the  first  policeman  that  passes. 

Dav.     But,  Colonel,  I  promised  to  refund 

Col.  W.  Refund  nothing.  Don't  let  me  hear  that  word 
again.  I  feel,  sir,  that  I  am  a  criminal,  when  I  fail  to  bring  a 
man  to  justice  who  so  richly  deserves  it.  I  will  not  take  your 
money  ;  keep  it,  and  never  enter  my  house  again  unless  I  send 
tor  you.  And  I  warn  you  now,  that  if  ever  you  wrong  me  or 
mine,  your  crime  will  be  exposed.  Now  leave  me.  [Col.  Wayne 
points  to  door  L.,  exit  Davis  L.,  exit  Col.  Wayne,  R.] 

•  SCENE  II. — Apartment  at  the  residence  of  Solomon  Davis  ; 
a  front  scene. 

Enter  Solomon  Davis,  R. 

Dav.  [Laughing.]  How  nicely  I  fooled  the  old  Colonel. 
He  believes  that  I  haven't  got  the  money  !  I  have,  though—- 
but I  don't  intend  to  part  with  it.  The  good-natured  always  get 


8  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

imposed  upon,  and  the  Colonel  is  a  happy,  open-hearted,  old 
gentleman.  Why  don't  that  boy  come  ?  I  was  a  fool  for  send- 
ing him  out  to  collect  rents  ;  if  he  gets  money  he  may  keep  it,  or 
spend  it  rather,  for  he  is  not  to  be  trusted.  Oh,  1  fear  he  is 
going  to  ruin  ;  and  I  have  tried  to  set  him  an  example  of 
sobriety  and  uprightness,  but  the  companions  he  has  chosen  are 
leading  him  astray. 

Enter  Matthew  Davis,  quietly  L.,  smoking  a  cigar. 

Mat.     [L.  C.]     What  are  you  groaning  about,  governor  ? 

Dav.  f  R.  C.  |  "Governor!"  How  does  that  sound  ?  I  fear, 
my  son,  that  your  evil  companions  are  last  learning  you  to  for- 
get the  counsels  of  your  father.  They  are  leading  you  to  destruc- 
tion. 

Mat.     Give  us  a  rest,  old  man. 

Day.  Matthew,  if  ever  I  hear  you  address  me  again  in  such 
an  unfeeling  manner,  I  will  chastise  you. 

Mat.  Well,  my  beloved  parent,  then — will  that  suit  you  ? 
[Laughs.}  I  assure  you  that  if  you  ever  undertake  that,  you  will 
want  to  let  the  job  out  before  you  get  through  with  it.  1  never 
permit  any  such  familiarity,  even  from  a  parent  ;  and  I  will  just 
inform  you  now,  that  your  moral  game  won't  work  with  me — I 
am  up  to  some  of  your  tricks. 

Day.  Matthew,  my  boy,  I  can't  allow  this.  It  is  terrible  for 
a  son  to  use  such  language  to  his  father. 

Mat.  Don't  preach  tome  then — save  your  sermons  for  your 
tenants,  and  they'll  give  you  rent  for  them. 

Day.  Heartless  boy  !  When  I  am  dead  and  gone,  you  will 
perhaps  think  of  your  conduct  to  your  poor  old  father. 

Mat.     Just  as  like  as  not  I'll  never  think  of  it  again. 

Day.  I  suppose  you  will  be  glad  when  you  see  the  hearse  at 
my  door.  [Pretends  to  weep.} 

Mat.  My  dear  parent,  don't  try  to  get  up  any  dampness,  it 
is  hard  work  for  you,  and  it  don't  have  any  effect  on  me  what- 
ever. 

Day.     [Angrily.}     Did  you  see  Mrs.  Bradford  to-day  ? 

Mat.     I  did. 

Day.     Did  she  give  you  any  money  ? 

Mat.     Not  a  red. 

Day.     What  did  she  say  ? 

Mat.  She  said  she  was  unprepared,  and  hoped  she  would 
soon  find  work,  and  that  the  angels  wouldn't  let  her  little  d»r- 
ling  starve,  etc. 

Day,     What  did  you  tell  her  ? 


OUT, IN  THE   STREETS.  9 

Mat.  I  told  her  that  the  story  wouldn't  go  down  with  you. 
that  there  was  no  wash  in  it. 

Dav.     You  did  right,  my  boy. 

Mat.  Thank  you.  It  is  very  gratifying  to  know  that  rny 
estimable  parent  approves  of  tiie  course  I  have  taken.  But 
what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  the  woman  ? 

Dav.      Move  her. 

Mat.     Out  ? 

Dav.     Yes. 

Mat.     In  the  street  ? 

Dav.     If  she  has  nowhere  else  to  go,  yes. 

Mat.     But  she  is  a  poor  widow. 

Dav.     I  am  not  responsible  for  that. 

Mat.     Her  little  girl  is  sick. 

Dav.     That  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Mat.  All  right,  my  friend — "  paddle  your  own  canoe," 
People  think  I  am  a  hard  customer,  but  I  am  not  mean  enough 
to  turn  a  woman  and  her  sick  child  out  into  the  street  to  die. 

Dav.  Matthew,  I  must  have  my  money.  It  is  for  your  sake 
I  am  working  ;  you  will  get  it  all  some  day. 

Mat.     You  are  saving  it  all  for  me,  are  you  ? 

Dav.     Yes,  saving  it  all  for  you,  Matthew. 

Mat.  All  right,  then.  Let  the  woman  have  the  room  for 
six  months,  and  charge  the  same  to  Matthew  Paul  Davis,  Esq. 
Good  day,  governor.  \Exit  L.j 

Dav.  Oh,  ingratitude,  ingratitude  !  What  a  terrible  thing  it  is 
to  have  an  ungrateful  child.  But  the  woman  will  have  to  get — 
get — get  !  [Exit  L.J 

SCENE  III. — A  room  in  a  tenement  house  ;  Minnie  on  couch 
asleep  ;  Mrs.  B.adford  bending  over  her,  L. 

Mrs.  B  She  sleeps,  my  poor  weak  child,  the  first  sound 
sleep  she  has  had  for  many  weeks.  Oh,  how  my  heart  ached 
for  her  last  night,  she  moaned  so  piteously,  as  the  cold  chills 
crept  over  her  wasted  form.  She  smiles  ;  surely  the  angels  are 
whispering  to  her  of  a  fairer  land  than  this — for  no  dream  of 
this  cold,  pitiless  world  could  bring  a  smile  to  those  wan  lips. 
Poor  sufferer  !  Your  childhood's  skies  have  been  so  dark — yet 
through  it  all  you  have  never  uttered  one  complaint.  \Weeps.\ 
That  restful  slumber  will  soon  be  broken  by  the  harsh  commands 
of  the  owner  of  these  wretched  rooms,  bidding  us  to  go  !  Go 
where  ?  Oh,  my  father,  mother,  would  you  have  cast  off  and 
disowned  your  child,  though  she  married  one  unworthy  of  your 


IO  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

respect,  could  you  have  seen  the  fearful  trials  through  which 
she  must  pass  ?  [Listening  at  door.]  I  hear  his  footsteps  on 
the  stairs  ;  the  man  without  a  heart  is  coming.  [Calls.] 
Minnie  !  Minnie  !  No,  I'll  let  her  sleep — such  moments  are 
the  only  ones  in  which  she  enjoys  pure  happiness. 

Enter  Solomon  Davis,  door  in  flat. 

Dav.  Mrs.  Bradford — I — ahem — I  presume — I  presume — you 
know  my  errand  here  to-day  ? 

Mrs.  B.     I  do. 

Dav.  Rent,  madam.  You  are  behind,  and  as  it  is  a  rule  oi 
mine  to  have  my  rent  in  advance,  I  thought  I  would  call  to-day, 
and  have  a  settlement  with  you. 

Mrs.  B.  Mr.  Davis,  I  cannot  pay  you  to-day — I  have  no 
money. 

Dav.  No  money  ?  Do  you  think  I  can  afford  to  rent  my 
rooms  to  paupers  who  cannot  pay  the  rent  ? 

Mrs.  B,  I  have  paid  you  all  but  a  trifle,  and  to  pay  that  at 
the  present  time  is  out  of  my  power. 

Dav.     Then  you  must  move  out. 

Mrs.  B.      Have  pity,  Mr.  Davis.     Do  you  see  that  sick  child  ? 

Dav.     See  her  ?     Yes,  I  see  her. 

Mrs.  B.      Would  you  have  me  take  that  child  out  to  die  ? 

Dav.  You  are  very  unreasonable,  Mrs.  Bradford.  I  must 
have  my  room  occupied  by  parties  who  are  able  to  pay  me — 
your  trying  to  throw  the  responsibility  of  your  child's  dying 
upon  me,  is  ungenerous. 

Mrs.  B.     Ungenerous!     You  talk  of  generosity  ! 

Dav.  Madam,  we  need  not  prolong  this  interview.  To  make 
everything  plain  to  you,  I  will  just  say  that  you  can  pack  up 
what  few  traps  you  have  in  a  few  hours,  but  I'll  give  you  until 
nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  to  vacate  this  room,  and  if  you 
are  not  out  by  that  time,  I'll  get  an  officer  to  assist  you. 

Mrs.  B.  1  have  no  doubt  of  it — you  are  cruel  enough  to  do 
such  an  act — you  will  be  the  murderer  of  my  child.  Do  you 
think  you  can  answer  for  this  act  to  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  ? 

Dav.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  You  are  trying  to  frighten  me.  If  I  can't 
make  out  a  clear  case  in  the  next  world,  you'll  have  the  satisfac- 
tion oi  knowing  that  I  will  have  to  suffer  the  consequences. 
Remember,  nine  o'clock  to-morrow.  \Exit  door  in  flat.] 

Mrs.  B.  [Sinks  sobbing  beside  the  couch.]  It  is  hard  to 
suffer  so.  1  do  not  wish  to  be  wicked  or  rebellious,  but  my  cry 
now  is  for  the  death  angel  to  come,  and  to  come  qi'ickly. 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  II 

Minnie.  [Waking.]  Oh,  mamma,  I  dreamed  such  a  sweet 
dream.  I  thought  we  went  to  live  in  the  nicest  house  ! 

Mrs.  B.  We  will  soon  go,  darling,  to  a  house  not  made  with 
hands.  [Aside.]  "  Out  in  the  streets."  [Embraces  Minnie  as 
the  act  drop  descends.] 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Street ;  a  snow  scene ;  house  -with  a  doorstep 
in  front. 

Enter  Pete,  R.,  carrying  basket. 

Pete.  Golly,  'spect  I'll  forget  somethin.'  I  was  gwine  to 
write  it  down,  and  de  ole  man  said  it  was  no  use,  I  couldn't  read 
it  when  I  did  have  it  writ — he's  allus  throwing  up  somethin' 
about  my  eddycation.  Lemme  see  what  I  was  to  get — dars 
bread  and  meat,  and  cheese  and  crackers,  and  nutmegs — and — 
and  cheese — yes  I  mind  all  ob  dem.  I  wonder  it  my  money's 
all  right.  [Looks  at  money. ~\  Yes,  it's  all  right — by  golly,  I've 
got  slathers  of  it.  "Spec  dar's  more'n  tree  thousand  dollars  in 
dat  pile. 

Enter  Matt.  Davis,  L. 

Mat.     Look  here,  my  Ethiophian  friend,  I'll  take  that  money. 

Pete.     I  guess  not. 

Mat.     Come,  sir,  I  want  that  money.     You  stole  it. 

Pete.  I  didn't  stole  it  neither.  1  guess  ole  Massa  Wayne 
gib  me  dis  money  to  buy  some  perwisions  with. 

Mat.     Look,  here,  are  you  going  to  give  me  that  money  ? 

Pete.  Ob  course  not.  I'm  going  to  git  some  cheese  and 
things,  I  tole  you. 

Mat.  I  guess  not.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  kill  you,  but  if  you 
don't  give  me  that  money  immediately,  there  will  be  a  dark- 
colored  corpse  found  here. 

Pete.     And  you  want  me  to  be  de  corpse  ? 

Mat.  Yes,  in  a  mighty  short  time  that  will  happen,  I  can 
assure  you. 

Pete.     Tain't  fair,  so  it  ain't. 

Mat.     [Produces  revolver.]     I  see  you  wish  to  die. 

Pete.     No,  sir,  I  don't — it's  'gin  my  principles. 

Mat.  [Places  revolver  in  Pete's  face.]  Now,  sir,  give  me 
that  money,  or  die. 


12  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Pete.      Don't  shoot  !     Don't  shoot!     Here  it  is  ;  it's  all  yours. 

Mat.  [Takes  money. \  All  right.  Remember,  I'm  a  private 
detective,  and  it  won't  do  to  trifle  with  me,  so  don't  open  your 
mouth  until  I  am  out  of  sight.  [Exits  L.,  keeping  pointing 
pistol  at  Pete.] 

Pete.  N'o  honest  man  would  a  done  dat.  How  am  I  to  git 
dat  cheese  ?  I  guess,  considerin'  de  circumstances,  dat  I  won't 
buy  no  cheese,  but  go  home. 

Enter  Colonel  Wayne,  R. 

Col.  W.  Pete,  you  rascal,  what  are  you  loitering  here  ior  i 
And  where  are  the  provisions  I  sent  you  to  purchase  ?  Didn\ 
you  get  them  ? 

Pete.  No,  massa,  I  didn't  git  'em,  and  I'm  just  going  to  tell 
you  all  about  it.  Look  dar,  sah  ;  sah,  ain't  dat  a  nice  lot  ob 
perwisions  to  get  with  dat  money  ? 

Col.  W.  Why,  you  great  dunce,  there  is  nothing  in  that 
basket. 

Pete.      No,  and  there  is  nothin*  in  my  pocket,  neithei. 

Col.  W.      What  do  you  mean  ? 

Pete.      Everything  was  clar  gone — dar  was  a  panic. 

Col.  W.  I'll  make  a  panic  about  your  head,  sir,  if  you  don't 
give  a  satisfactory  explanation.  [Shaking stick  at  him.] 

Pete.  Yes,  satisfaction  and  explanation  !  I  guess  it  is  no 
satisfaction  to  me  to  have  knives  and  pistols  stuck  in  my  face 
till  I  couldn't  see  anything  else.  I  could  a'most  see  de  bullets 
startin'  our  ob  de  pistols. 

Col.  W.      Who  was  trying  to  shoot  you  ? 

Pete.  I  didn't  ax  his  name  ;  'spect  he  wouldn't  tole  me  it  I 
had.  [Chuckles^ 

Col.  W.      What  kind  of  a  lie  are  you  trying  to  tell  ? 

Pere.      Jest  as  true  a  one  as  you  ever  heard. 

Col.  W.  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Do  you  pretend  to  say  that  any 
one  robbed  you  to-day  ? 

Pete      Yes,  sah,  he  did  that,  suah. 

Col.  W.  H^\v  did  any  one  know  that  you  had  money  with 
you  ? 

Pet?.  Dat  s  what  I  don't  know — 'spect  he  must  have  been  a 
witch  or  someihin.' 

Col.  W  Now,  sir,  I  think  that  is  about  as  weak  a  story  as  i 
ever  heard. 

Pete.      Yes,  sir,  I  know.     I  felt  mighty  weak  'fore  I  got  away. 

CoL  W.     You  have  made  up  that  whole  story — you  have  been 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  13 

fooling  about,  and  lost  your  money.  The  idea  of  any  one  rob- 
bing you  on  the  street  in  daylight  is  absurd. 

Pete.  I  guess  I  went  down  a  street  whar  dar  was  not  many 
walkin'  around — I  went  down  dat  way  to  see  some  ob  de  boys 
— and  when  I  was  walkin'  along  sayin'  nothin'  to  nobody,  all  at 
once  a  teller  come  up  to  me  wid  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  a 
knife,  and  he  says,  says  he,  "  You  have  got  some  money  that  I 
want."  and  I  told  him  that  I  hadn't,  and  he  says,  says  he,  "  You 
have,"  and  I  tried  to  reason  with  him,  but  he  wouldn't  do  it, 
and  then  he  remarked  that  there  would  be  a  dark  cullud  corpse 
to  be  found  dar  in  a  few  minutes  if  I  didn't  give  him  all  the 
money  I  had.  If  I'd  had  a  pistol,  den  I'd  a  shot  him,  but  I 
hadn't  any,  so  he  said  he  wouldn't  wait  any  longer,  and  he  com- 
menced to  open  up  dem  pistols  to  shoot  me,  and  he  stick  'em 
right  square  in  my  face,  and  when  I  seed  the  bullets  a  startin'to 
come,  I  guv  up  de  money  I  had.  'Spect  if  I'd  come  home  all 
shot  full  of  holes,  you'd  said  I  was  just  foolin1  round.  [Snow 
begins  to  fall.} 

Col.  W.  Well,  Pete,  you  look  as  if  you  might  be  telling  the 
truth.  Come  along  with  me,  and  attend  to  your  other  duties. 
The  amount  was  not  large  at  any  rate.  You're  a  careless, 
blundering  rascal  for  all  that.  [Exeunt  L.  Music.] 

Enter  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Minnie,  R. 

Min.     Can't  we  go  to  some  place  and  warm  ourselves  ? 

Mrs.  B.  We  could  go  to  the  station  house,  dear,  but  to  take 
you  among  those  wretched  people,  I  cannot  !  We  must  remain 
here,  Minnie,  stay  here  and  die. 

Min.  Oh  !  I  am  so  cold.  [Sinks  on  doorstep.  Mr3.  Brad- 
ford wraps  shawl  around  her.] 

Enter  Col.  Wayne  and  Pete,  R. 

Pete.  By  golly,  Massa  Wayne,  dar  is  somebody  livin*  hyar 
on  the  street. 

Col.  W.  What  is  the  matter  now,  idiot ;  some  one  going  to 
rob  you  again  ? 

Pete.     Say,  look  dar,  will  you  ?     Don't  dat  git  ye  ? 

Col.  W.  What  is  all  this  ?  Some  one  turned  out  ?  Can  it 
be  possible  a  woman  and  child  perishing  in  the  cold  in  this 
so-called  Christian  city  ? 

Pete.  It  'pears  so.  Jist  wait  and  let  me  ax  dem  what's  de 
matter.  [70  Mrs.  B.]  I  say,  mum,  what  fur  ye  settin'  out  here 
in  the  cold  ?  Eh  ?  I  'spect  she's  dead  ;  she  don't  say  nuffin'. 


14  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Col.  W.     Stand  back  and  let  me  speak  to  the  woman. 

Pete.      He  allus  wants  to  do  ail  de  talkin'. 

Col.  W.     Madam,  why  are  you  here  on  the  street  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Because  I  have  no  other  place  to  go.  I  can  at  least 
sit  here  and  die. 

C.I.  W.  No,  you  don't  ;  not  a  bit  of  it.  A  pretty  story  !  A 
woman  and  child  perish  here  from  exposure  ;  it's  preposterous  ! 

Pete.     Yes,  it's  'posterous. 

Col.  W.     What  are  the  police  about  ? 

Pete.  Dat's  what  I  say.  Dem  fellers  am  nebber  around 
when  dey's  wanted. 

Mrs.  B.  On  my  way  hither  a  policeman  offered  to  take  me 
to  the  station  house,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  take  my  child  to  so 
dreadful  a  place.  I'll  remain  on  this  doorstep  a  little  while 
longer,  for  this  cold  wind  is  more  merciful  than  man.  I  begged 
of  the  man  who  turned  us  out  to  let  us  remain  a  little  longer, 
but  he  refused,  and  now  that  we  are  out,  myself  and  sick  child, 
and  have  no  place  to  go,  I  wish  to  be  left  alone,  -it  won't  last 
long  ;  a  few  hours,  and  Minnie  and  I  can  tell  our  story  to  One 
who'll  pity  us. 

Col.  W.  Have  you  no  relatives  to  whom  you  can  apply  for 
shelter  ? 

Mrs.  B.  I  have  relatives,  but  they  would  not  care  for  me, 
and  1  would  rather  die  than  to  ask  aid  of  them. 

Col.  W.     Madam,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Mrs.  B.     Bradford,  sir. 

Col.  W.  [Aside.}  Bradford  ;  that's  my  sister  name. 
[Aloud.]  Bradford  ?  May  I  ask  your  given  name  ? 

Mrs.  B.     My  name  is  Myrtle  Bradford. 

Col.  W.     Myrtle  Bradford  !     That  was  my  sister's  name. 

Mrs.  B.  Yes,  and  I  am  that  sister  you  once  loved.  I  rec- 
ognized you  the  moment  I  saw  you.  You  are  Colonel  Wayne 
and  I  am  Colonel  Wayne's  sister. 

Col.  W.  I  can't  believe  it.  And  yet  the  features — I  thought 
my  sister  Myrtle  was  dead. 

Mrs.  B.  Do  you  see  that  ring  ?  It  was  our  mother's.  I 
have  parted  with  everything  but  that,  and  that  I  shall  lose  only 
with  death. 

CoL  W.  Can  it  be  that  I  find  my  only  sister  homeless,  and 
with  her  child,  shelterless,  "  out  in  the  streets,"  with  the  piti- 
less snow  falling  on  their  sparsely  covered  limbs  ? 

Pete.  [L.]  Golly,  it's  his  sister.  I  jist  thought  the  minit  I 
seen  her  dat  she  was  some  relation  of  his,  they  look  so  mighty 
different. 


OUT    i:\    TilE   STREETS.  15 

Col,  W.     Did  you  not  know  that  I  lived  in  this  city  ? 

Mrs.  B.     Yes,  I  knew  it. 

Col.  W.     Then  why  did  you  not  come  to  me  ? 

Mrs.  B.  When  I  married  Orlan  Bradford  my  father  cast  me 
off,  my  brother,  too,  disowned  me  ;  and  a  Wayne,  you  know, 
can  die,  but  never  beg. 

Col.  W.  [Holds  out  his  hand  to  her,  which  she  cheerfully 
takes.]  My  wronged  sister,  forgive  me  !  Had  you  known  how 
bitter  were  the  tears  I  shed  when  I  read  of  your  death,  as  I 
then  supposed,  in  that  far-off  Southern  city,  you  would  have 
come  to  me  without  hesitation. 

Mrs.  B.      Do  you  forgive  me,  brother  ? 

Col.  W.  There  is  nothing  to  forgive  ;  you  are  the  injured 
one.  What  is  your  daughter's  name  ? 

Mrs.  B.     Minnie. 

Col.  W.  Poor  little  sufferer  !  How  hot  her  forehead  is,  even 
here  in  the  cold.  We  must  not  stay  here  longer.  Pete,  what 
are  you  standing  here  idle  for  ?  Take  this  child  and  let  us  be 
gone — but  no  ;  go  to  the  corner  and  hail  a  cab,  and  bring  it 
here  at  once.  [Exit  Pete,  L.]  Who  was  the  cause  of  your 
being  turned  into  the  streets  ? 

Mrs.  B.     His  name  is  Solomon  Davis. 

Col.  W.     Davis  !     Davis  !     Solomon  Davis  ! 

Mrs.  B.     Do  you  know  him  ? 

Col.  W.  Do  I  know  him  ?  You  shall  know  soon  how  well  I 
know  him. 

Mrs.  B.     Do  not  worry  yourself  about  him  ;  let  him  go. 

Col.  W.  Yes,  I  shall  when  an  officer  of  the  law  has  him  in 
charge  ;  when  he  cringingly  kneels  and  begs  for  mercy  ;  then, 
and  not  till  then,  shall  he  escape  me. 

Enter  Pete,  L. 

Pete.     De  carriage  am  ready,  massa ;  dis  way. 

Col.  W.  Come  along,  Myrtle,  "  out  of  the  streets,"  out  of 
the  snow,  to  a  blazing  fire  in  a  cheerful  home.  •  [Music.  Exeunt 
Col.  Wayne,  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Minnie,  L.] 

Pete.  Oh,  golly,  ain't  I  happy !  For  dat  peppery  old 
Colonel  is  a  good  old  fellow,  dat  he  is.  [Exit  L.] 

[SCENE  II. — Room  at  Colonel  Wayne's  ;  centre  doors  ;  Mrs. 
Wayne  and  Nina  seated  on  lounge  R.  ;  chairs  L.,  table  c.] 

Nin.  [R.]  Mamma,  the  servants  tell  me  that  Pete  had 
some  money  stolen  from  him  on  the  streets  to-day. 


l6  OUT  IN  THE  STREETS. 

Mrs.  W.  [R-  C.j  Yes,  he  tells  a  wonderful  story  of  his 
troubles.  How  he  was  robbed  and  came  near  jenig  shot. 
Your  father  went  with  him  this  lime  to  protect  him. 

Pete.  [Without  L.]  None  ob  your  business  whose  chiid  it 
is.  Fix  dat  {enter  Pete  L-.  with  Minnie  in  his  ar\-t\s\  lounge, 
Miss  Nina  ;  dis  chile  weighs  powerful  for  a  sick  chile. 

Mrs.  W.     Whose  child  are  you  bringing  here  ? 

Pete.  I  guess  it's  some  relation  ob  ours,  \futs  Miimi  -  on 
lounge  R.,  tken  goes  to  L.  and  waits.\ 

Enter  Col.  Wayne  and  Mrs.  Bradford,  L. 

Col.  W.  Mrs.  Wayne,  Nina,  I  have  to-day  found  ore  who 
tor  years  we  have  thought  to  have  been  dead — my  si-ter 
Myrtle. 

Mrs.  W.  [L.  C.]  Myrtle  Bradford!  [They  embrace,^Afi.\ 
kisses  Minnie.] 

Nin.      [R-J      Aunt  Myrtle,  this  is  a  delightful  surprise. 

Min.  [On  sofa,  R.]  Mamma,  that  is  Nina  who  was  so  ^ood 
to  us. 

Nin.  Yes,  Lam  the  one  who  called  to  see  you,  but  F  little 
thought  you  were  my  cousin,  Minnie. 

Mrs.  B.  [L.]  Dear  friends,  this  kind  welcome  ov<  r\vhi-lrns 
me.  One  hour  ago  I  gave  up  all  hope,  but  now  I  am  so  happy 
that  I  cannot  thank  you  enough.  And  the  thought  that  brings 
me  greatest  happiness  is  that  Minnie  can  now  be  en  red  for. 

Mrs.  W.  Colonel  Wrayne,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  No 
physician  called  !  Send  for  one  immediately. 

Col.  W.      [R.  C.J     Pete,  go  for  Dr.  Brown,  and  be  lively. 

Pete.     Yes,  sir  ;  I'll  do  that. 

Nin.     Pete,  if  Dr.  Brown  is  not  at  home,  bring  Dr.  Medfield. 

Pete.     You'd  rather  Dr.  Brown  wouldn't  be  at  home,  eh  ? 

Nin.     Dr.  Medfield  is  the  best  physician  for 

Pete.     For  young  folks  ? 

Nin.     Go  along,  you  black  rascal. 

Pete.  I  understand  her  ;  she's  kind  o'  gone  after  dat  young 
feller.  I  guess  I'll  try  to  manage.  I  can  fix  dese  things  up 
sharp.  \ExifL.] 

Col.  W.  You  tell  me,  Myrtle,  that  Nina  has  often  been  to 
see  you.  Did  you  not  know  that  she  was  my  daughter  ? 

Mrs.  B.  I  did  not.  I  knew  her  only  as  Miss  Nina  ;  and 
now,  dear  Nina,  I  can  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  us. 

Nina.  You  must  not  thank  me  for  only  doing  my  duty.  It 
was  but  little,  but  that  little  was  a  pleasure. 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  17 

Mrs.  W.  Sister,  the  story  of  your  life  since  you  left  this  city 
would  he  of  interest  to  us.  I  would  not  have  you  relate  it  il  it 
would  give  you  paii\  to  bring  up  recollections  of  days  tha.t  you 
would  gladly  forget. 

Mrs.  B.  My  life,  since  the  hour  I  left  my  father's  house,  has 
been  as  a  long,  dreary  night,  how  long,  how  dreary,  none  but 
He  can  know.  I  married  Orlan  Bradford,  believing  him  to  be 
all  that  was  good  and  noble.  Father,  irolher,  brother,  all 
warned  me,  and  to!d  me  that  he  was  a  drunkard  and  a  gambler, 
but  I  would  not  listen  to  them.  1  soon  found  that  he  married 
me  for  my  money.  We  went  to  Charleston.  South  Carolina.  I 
was  in  a  strange  city  among  strangers.  \Vhtn  he  learned  that 
my  father  had  disowned  me,  the  demon  within  him  auoke.  It 
is  terrible  to  think  of  the  lite  which  1  then  led.  1  would  see 
nothing  of  him  tor  weeks  at  a  time,  and  \\hen  he  did  come,  it 
was  only  to  abuse  me.  One  night — it  was  late,  nearly  morning 
— I  was  \\iiitmg  for  him,  thinking  of  the  happy  tile  \\hich  lied 
at  home— of  the  fearful  one  I  was  then  enduring — \\hen  I  heard 
approaching  footsteps — tramp,  tramp,  heavy  and  slow.  They 
stopped  ;  my  heart  stood  still.  The  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  there  was  Orlan,  my  husband — dead — shot  through  the 
heart  in  a  gambling  hell  while  drunk.  They  laid  him 
upon  the  bed,  and  there,  beside  my  dead  husband,  I  sat  the 
livelong  n'ght.  That  terrible  night — can  I  ever  forget  it  ? 
Morning  came  at  last  ;  but  with  it  delirium.  When  reason 
n'turned  the  body  was  gone.  They  had  buried  him  out  of 
sight,  and  to  this  day  I  know  not  where  the  body  rests.  I  sold 
tlie  tew  things  we  had  and  came  to  this  city.  While  I  could 
obtain  work  I  had  money  ;  but  Minnie  became  sick,  I  could  not 
get  work — you  know  the  rest ;  how  you  found  me  "  out  in 
the  streets"  waiting  to  die. 

Col.  W.  I  read  in  a  Charleston  paper  of  the  death  of  a  Mrs. 
M.  Bradford  ;  we  supposed  it  was  you. 

Nin.  Aunt  Myrtle,  your  life  so  far  has  been  a  sad  one,  but 
we  will  try  to  make  the  future  brighter.  Minnie  will  sron  be 
well,  and  there  will  be  no  happier  home  in  the  city  than  ours. 

Col.  W.  There  will  be  no  more  wandering,  now.  Myrtle  ;  no 
more  wanting  for  bread.  And  now,  Mrs.  Wayne,  do  you 
remember  a  conversation  we  had  yesterday  about  Davis,  that 
excellent  gentleman  ?  It  was  no  other  than  Solomon  Davis 
who  had  my  sister  and  her  sick  child  turned  into  the  street. 

M".  W.     Gin  it  be  possible? 

N  n.      It   doesn't   surprise   me   any,   mamma.      I   think    he   is 
nr.ean  enough  to  do  anything. 
2 


18  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Col.  W.  When  Pete  returns  I  shall  send  for  the  gentleman, 
and  have  a  settlement  with  him — in  full. 

Mrs.  W.  Not  so  loud.  Remember,  there  is  a  sick  child  in 
the  room. 

Col.  W.  I  forgot ;  and  she  sleeps,  too.  I  will  not  disturb 
her  ;  but  I  shall  have  an  interview  with  him  that  will  long  be 
remembered.  I  never  told  you  why  he  came  here  so  often.  I 
have  thought  I  would  arrange  a  surprise  for  the  gentleman.  I 
want  no  one  in  the  room  with  me  when  he  comes,  but  at  a 
signal,  Myrtle,  you  must  come  in.  I  want  to  see  the  villain 
cower  at  my  feet.  Retire,  all  of  you,  for  the  present. 

Mrs.  W.     Why,  Colonel,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Col.  W.  You  will  soon  know.  At  last  he  will  receive  justice. 
[Exeunt  Mr-.  Wayne,  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Nina,  c.J 

Col.  W.  Thank  heaven.  I  have  at  last  found  my  long-lost 
sister.  Now  for  Solomon  Davis.  This  time  I  will  give  him  a 
settlement  in  full — principal  and  interest.  \Qxit  C.J 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. — Same  as  Scene  II.,  Act  II.;   Colonel  Wayne's  ; 
Colonel  Wayne  seated  at  table,  c. 

Col.  W.  I  wonder  if  that  black  scoundrel  will  make  any 
blunder?  He  should  have  been  here  before  this  time.  Some  may 
think  it  is  ignoble  in  me  to  take  the  step  I  propose  to  ;  that  if 
I  once  consented  to  overlook  a  man's  crime,  I  should  be  in  duty 
bound  to  consider  him  forgiven,  and  not  attempt  to  have  him 
punished  from  feelings  of  revenge — I  should  not  have  let  him 
pass  unpunished  then,  but  he  begged  so  piteously  for  mercy  that 
I  did  not  expose  him,  but  suffered  the  loss — but  now,  I  feel  that 
to  be  merciful  to  one  who  knows  no  mercy  would  be  an  act  of 
injustice. 

Enter  Pete,  L. 

Pete.     Mr.  Wayne,  are  you  at  home  ? 

Col.  W.     Certainly,  you  dumb-head — can't  you  see  ? 

Pete.  Yes,  I  see,  but  Davis  is  out  dar,  and  dat's  what  he 
wants  to  know. 

Col.  W.  Well,  didn't  you  tell  him  I  was  ?  I  sent  for  him, 
you  black  blunderer. 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  10 

Pete.  Colonel  Wayne,  you  know  jist  as  well  as  I  do  dat  people 
are  at  home  sometimes  when  they  say  they  ain't,  and  I  wanted  to 
be  sartin  about  it  in  dis  case. 

Col.  W.  Go  and  admit  him.  What  are  you  standing  there 
arguing  with  me  for  ? 

Pete.  {Aside.']  He  allus  starts  an  argyment,  and  den  tries 
to  shut  me  up  in  dat  way.  I  neber  git  a  chance  to  reason  wid 
him.  Here  he  is — come  up  ! 

Enter  Davis,  L. 

Pet3.     Mr.  Davis,  sah  !     [Exit  L.] 

Dav.  Colonel  Wayne,  I  have  failed  to  get  here  at  the  time  you 
appointed,  but  hope  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting  ? 

Col.  W.     [R.]     Not  at  all,  sir. 

Dav.     [R.  c.]     I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  any  one,  and 

Col.  W.     Of  course  ! 

Dav.  I  use  every  effort  now  to  redeem  myselt  in  your  esti- 
mation. That  one  act  of  mine,  done  in  a  moment  of  desperation, 
has  caused  me  many  a  sleepless  night. 

Col.  W.     Very  likely. 

Enter  Pete,  unnoticed,  L.,  beckoning  on  Mrs.  Bradford. 

Dav.  It  has  indeed  !  Oh,  Colonel  Wayne,  I  am  now  striving 
to  lead  a  different  life.  I  once  was  reckless,  and  I  acknowledge 
that  I  sometimes  did  things  which  were  wrong,  that  I  might 
become  rich  ;  until  at  last  came  that  fatal  hour  when  ruin 
seemed  inevitable,  and  I  committed  that  crime  which  has  made 
my  life  a  burden. 

Col.  W.     Yes,  I  have  not  forgotten. 

Dav.  But  I  hope  you  will  forget.  I  know  I  am  unworthy — 
but  I  am  talking  about  my  own  affairs  and  have  given  you  no 
time  to  tell  me  why  I  am  summoned. 

Col.  W.  [R.]  You  had  the  reputation  at  one  time,  Mr.  Davis, 
of  being  a  very  hard  landlord — one  who  showed  but  few  favors 
to  those  who  might  be  unable  to  pay  their  rent.  1  hope  that 
your  experience  has  taught  you  a  lesson. 

Dav.  [C.]  It  has  indeed  !  I  trust  that  I  am  one  who  can 
feel  for  the  unfortunate,  and  be  charitable  to  all. 

Col.  W-  I  suppose  you  are  anxious  to  know  why  I  sent  for 
you  to-day,  and  I  will  explain  that  presently.  We  were  speak- 
ing about  being  charitable  and  caring  for  the  unfortunate  ;  I 
would  like  to  ask  you  what  you  would  do  if  one  ot  your  tenants, 
say  a  woman,  could  not  pay  her  rent,  owing  to  a  failure  to  get 
work,  or  something  of  the  kind. 


2O  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Day.  [Aside,]  Has  he  heard  ?  \Aloud.}  Colonel,  I  hope 
you  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I  would  say  to  a  lady 
under  such  circumstances,  "  Stay  right  here  and  p;iy  me  when 
you  can." 

Col.  W.  And  you  say  that  you  would  shelter  such  an  unfor- 
tunate ! 

Day.     I  would,  I  assure  you. 

CoL  W.  Then  you  are  a  different  man  from  what  you  once 
were. 

DaY.  I  trust  that  I  am  a  different  man,  and  that  I  have 
broader  and  better  views  in  regard  to  humanity. 

Col.  W.      Do  you  know  a  lady  by  the  name  of  Bradford  ? 

Day.  Bradford — Bradford — let  me  see  !  I  think  I  have 
heard  the  name.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Col.  W.  I  have  been  informed  that  she  was  forced  to  leave 
the  room  she  occupied,  and  her  goods,  what  few  she  had,  were 
tumbled  into  the  street. 

Day.  Can  it  be  true  ?  Who  could  be  cruel  enough  to  com- 
mit such  an  act  ? 

Col.  W.     \Sternly.']     Solomon  Davis  ! 

Day.     What  do  you  mean,  Colonel  ? 

Col.  W.     I  mean  that  Solomon  Davis  was  that  man. 

Day.     Colonel  Wayne,  I  deny  it. 

Col.  W.  You  deny  it,  do  you  ?  Now  I  will  ask  you  if  you 
recognize  that  lady  behind  you  ?  [Davis  turns  round  and  sees 
Mrs  Bradford,  standing  L.  c.] 

Day.     What  does  this  mean  ?     It  is  a  plot  ! 

Col.  W.  Don't  lie  !  It  will  not  help  your  case.  Do  you 
know  this  lady  ?  Answer  at  once. 

Day.    I  do. 

Col.  W.     Is  not  her  name  Bradford  ? 

Day.     I  believe  so. 

Col.  W.     She  occupied  a  room  in  one  of  your  houses  ? 

Day.    She  did. 

Col.  W.     You  turned  her  out  ? 

Pete.  [Aside.']  Do  ole  man's  gittin'  Davis'  evidence  a  little 
mixed  on  de  cross-examination. 

Day.  I  did  !  But  why  is  she  here  to  confront  me  ?  What 
is  this  woman  to  you  ? 

CoL  W.  You  will  soon  learn.  Did  not  this  woman  have  a 
sick  child  ? 

Day.     She  did. 

Col.  W.  And  did  she  not  beg  of  you  to  let  her  stay,  stating 
that  the  exposure  on  the  streets  would  kill  that  child  ? 


OUT  IN  THE  STREETS.  21 

Dav.     She  did. 

Col.  W.     And  yet  you  turned   them  out?     [Davis  does  not 

answer.] 

Pete.      [Aside.}      He  objects.     Dat's  a  leadin'  question. 

Col.  W.  Now,  I  will  inform  you  why  this  lady  interests  me 
— she  is  my  sister. 

Dav.     No  ! 

Col.  W.     Yes  !     Do  you  dispute  my  word  ? 

Dav.      No,  no   -only  I  cannot  understand. 

Col.  W.  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know  that  she  is  my  sister 
— and  as  you  have  dealt  with  her,  so  am  I  about  to  deal  with 
you. 

Dav.  Oh,  Colonel  Wayne,  forgive  me — you  will  forgive  me, 
Mrs.  Bradford  ? 

Ikl  s.  B.  [L.  c.]  I  can  forgive  you  all  the  injury  you  have 
done  me,  but  when  I  remember  that  you  were  willing  to 
sacrifice  my  child's  life  for  a  little  money,  I  cannot  so  easily 
forgive, 

Dav.  But  I  am  sorry,  Mrs.  Bradford  ;  I  will  do  all  1  can 
to 

Col.  W.  Silence  !  You  know,  Solomon  Davis,  that  you  forged 
my  name  for  five  thousand  dollars.  You  begged  so  piteously 
and  claimed  you  were  nearly  crazy,  and  I  let  you  off,  losing  the 
money.  Now  when  my  sister  begged  of  you  to  give  her  shelter 
a  little  longer,  you  refused,  you  turned  her  out.  Now  I  shall 
deal  with  you  in  a  like  manner — your  crime  shall  be  exposed. 
An  officer  awaits  my  call. 

Dav.  He  does,  eh  ?  I'll  not  be  taken.  [Attempts  to 
escape.} 

Enter  Policeman,  L. 

Pol.  [Puts  hand  on  Davis'  shoulder.]  Solomon  Davis,  1 
arrest  you  for  the  crime  of  forgery. 

Dav.     I'll  make  you  rue  this,  Colonel  Wayne. 
Pol.     No  remarks,  sir.      You  are  my  prisoner  ! 

Enter  Matt  Davis,  L. 

Mat.     [L.]     Hello,  gov,  what's  this  rumpus  about  ? 
Dav.     It's  a  plot. 

Mat.     A  put  up  job,  eh  ?     Well,  I'll  see  about  it. 
Pete.     Say,  Massa  Wayne,  dat  is  de  fellah  dat  took  de  money 
from  me. 

Col.  W.     Are  you  sure  of  it  ? 

Pete.     Yes,  I'll  swear  it  on  all  de  Bibles  in  de  city. 


22  OUT   IN   THE   STREETS. 

Col.  W.     Policeman,  arrest  that  man. 

Mat.  [Draws  revolver.]  No  you  don't,  old  blubber.  [Pis- 
tol misses  fire.} 

Pete.  [Presents  horse  pistol.}  Ah,  ha  !  Didn't  go  off,  did 
it  ?  Now  look  out !  {Closed  in.] 

SCENE  II. — A  front  street. 
Enter  Pete.  L. 

Pete.  I  guess  I  got  de  spider's  webs  all  cleaned  off  ob  de 
old  place,  and  if  Missus  Bradford  an'  dat  chile  don't  have  snug 
quarters,  it  won't  be  my  fault.  I  'most  worked  myself  to  death 
too,  and  I  wouldn't  a  done  it  for  nobody  else,  either  ;  but  dat 
family  jist  seems  like  my  own.  De  old  Kernel  and  me  found 
'em,  and  ob  course  Ise  willin'  to  help  "em.  De  old  Kernel 
understands  how  I  feel  on  de  subjict,  for  de  udder  day  he  says 
to  me,  "  Pete,  you  can  go  an"  live  wid  Myrtle,  an'  see  to  t'ings, 
an'  lay  in  perwisions,  "an"  I'm  a  gwine  to  do  it.  [Takes  out 
horse  pistol.}  Dar  is  dat  pistol,  and  if  anybody  tries  to  take  my 
money  away  from  me  now,  he's  a  dead  man,  suah  !  De  ole 
Kernel  feels  bad  about  my  leavin"  him  ;  says  it  seems  like  partin' 
wid  one  ob  de  family,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  go  where  dey  need 
me  de  wust.  Poor  ole  Davis  he  went  to  de  tenipentiary  yes- 
terday— dat  ends  his  chapter.  He  kind  o'  hated  to  go,  but  dey 
persuaded  him.  I  wonder  whar  dat  child  is  — it's  about  time 
dem  folks  was  comin'  roun'  dis  way.  Dar  comes  dat  young 
one,  now,  as  lively  as  a  grasshopper.  [Exit  R.] 

SCENE  III. —  The  old  Wayne  homestead  as  before;  six  months 
later. 

Enter  Minnie,  R.,  followed  by  Pete. 

Min.  Pete,  do  you  know  we're  going  to  live  here,  mamma 
and  I? 

Pete.  Golly  !     I  know  dat  dis  long  time. 

Min.  In  this  very  house  ? 

Pete.  [R-]  Of  course  I  know'd  dat.  I  know'd  your  mamma 
lived  here  when  she  was  no  bigger'n  you  be. 

Min.  [L.]     You  did  ? 

Pete.  Yes,  I  know'd  most  all  de  folks  around  here. 

Min.  Why,  I  thought  you  used  to  live  in  North  Carolina. 

Pete.  Yes,  I  used  to  live  in  de  old  Norf  State. 

Min.  And  uncle  Wayne  said  you  had  been  with  him  three 
years. 


OUT   IN    THE   STREETS.  23 

Pet.      Yes. 

Min.  Then  how  did  you  know  my  mother  when  she  was  no 
larger  than  I  am  ? 

Pete  [Confused.]  Hey  ?  Why,  say  did  you  know  that  I 
am  going  to  live  with  you  ? 

Min.     No. 

Pete.  Yes.  I'm  gwine  to  stay  here.  But  say,  little  one, 
where  is  your  mammy,  and  your  uncle,  and  de  rest  ? 

Min.  Oh,  they  are  coming  ;  they  have  been  around  almost 
everywhere,  and  mamma  says  everything  looks  as  it  did  long 
ago. 

Pete.  I  jist  bet  it  does,  "cause  I  fixed  'em  up.  Hello,  here 
dey  come  ?  [Goes  up  a  little.} 

Enter  Col.  Wayne,  Mrs.  Bradford  and  Mrs.  Wayne,  R. 

Col.  W.  [L.  C.  to  Minnie.]  Ah,  so  you  are  here,  are  you,  little 
one  ? 

Min.      [L.j      Yes,  sir,  Pete  and  I  were  waiting  here  for  you. 

Pete.  \Up  stage.]  Yes,  we's  waitin'  till  de  "  Conquerin' 
Nero  comes." 

Col.  W.  Pete.  I  think  you  are  getting  to  be  a  greater  fool 
every  day. 

Pete.  I  confess,  Kernel,  dat  the  company  a  man  keeps  makes 
an  impression  on  him. 

Col.  W.  If  it  were  possible,  I  would  m;ike  an  impression  on 
your  head.  Does  the  old  place  look  familiar,  Myrtle  ? 

Mrs.  B.  [R.  C.]  It  does,  indeed  !  Dear  old  home  !  Every- 
thing looks  so  good,  so  like  the  old  home  of  my  chilclhoorl.  And 
there  is  mother's  old  arm-chair,  the  chair  she  sat  in  the  night  I 
left  home  ;  little  did  either  of  us  think  that  it  was  the  last  time 
we  should  see  each  other. 

Enter  IJina  and  Dr.  Medfield,  R. 

Col.  W.  You  were  always  in  her  mind,  Myrtle,  for  every 
day  .she  talked  about  you,  and  her  last  words  were,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  meet  my  darling  Myrtle,"  for  she  thought  you  dead. 
[Mrs.  Bradford  weeps.} 

Pete.  \Solemnly  to  Minnie,  coming  down  L.  corner.']  I  bet 
your  grandmudder  was  disappointed  when  she  got  to  de  prom- 
ised land. 

Mia..     Why,  Pete,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Pete      'Cause  your  mudder  wasn't  there. 

Col.  W.  I  have  told  you,  Myrtle,  how  father  relented  and 
forgave  you  before  he  died — how  much  happier  he  would  have 


24  OUT  IN  THE  STREETS. 

been  could  you  have  come  back  to  him.  But  they  are  both  gone. 
Here  is  the  old  homestead  ;  it  is  yours,  the  papers  conveying  it 
to  you  are  in  the  hands  of  my  attorney — the  sum  of  money  left 
to  your  credit,  will  suffice  to  keep  the  wolt  from  the  door  while 
you  may  need  it,  and  leave  a  snug  little  sum  there  for  Sunbeam. 

Mrs.  B.  How  thankful  I  am  that  at  last  Minnie  and  I  have  a 
home. 

Dr.  M.  Colonel  Wayne,  I  find  that  two  who  have  been  inmates 
of  your  home  for  the  last  six  months,  have  this  day  found  a  home 
of  their  own;  now  I  ask  you  to  permit  one  who  has  thus  iar 
spent  her  life  beneath  your  roof,  to  share  a  home  with  me  ;  I 
^ave  her  consent,  we  await  yours. 

Col.  W.     Dr.  Medfield — I — why — I  declare,  sir 

Pete.     May  de  good  Lord  shower  blessin's  onto  ye. 

Col.  W.     Pete,  you  rascal,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Pets.     Everybody  says  somefin'  on  "casions  ob  dis  kind. 

Col.  W.  Well,  sir,  I'll  speak  (or  myself.  Dr.  Medfield,  I  re- 
spect you,  but  when  it  comes  to  letting  that  girl  leave,  why 

Nin.  Papa,  what  is  the  use  of  refusing,  you  know  I  will  do 
as  I  please. 

Col.  W.  We'll  see.  Do  you  all  want  to  leave  me  at  once  ? 
Myrtle  and  Minnie  leave,  and  now  Nina. 

Pete.     Yes,  I'm  goin',  too. 

Col.  W.     I  suppose  my  wife  will  go  next. 

Mrs.  W.  That  would  be  useless — you  would  be  sure  to  fol- 
low me. 

Dr.  M.  Colonel,  I  am  aware  that  you  have  known  me  but  a 
short  time,  yet  I  trust 

Col.  W.  Do  not  commence  an  eloquent  speech  here.  I  know 
you  well  enough — wait  four  or  five  years,  and  I'll  not  object. 

Nin.  My  dear  papa,  remember  I  have  a  word  to  say  about 
waiting  four  or  five  years. 

Pete.  I  know  I  wouldn't  wait  dat  long  if  I  was  her  ;  if  he 
didn't  say  "yes,"  I'd  jist  evacuate. 

Mrs.  B.  Brother,  you  have  made  two  hearts  happy  ;  continue 
in  the  good  work. 

Mrs.  W.  Dr.  Medfield,  you  do  not  know  Colonel  Wayne  as 
well  as  I  do— he  means  "  yes"  whether  he  says  so  or  not. 

Pete.  Dat  ends  de  chapter — it  jist  takes  Mrs.  Wayne  to  settle 
things  in  a  hurry. 

Col.  W.  It  beats  all  !  A  man  is  no  more  head  of  the  family 
nowadays  !  Woman  take  sole  control.  If  a  man  must  sub- 
mit, he  had  better  do  so  gracefully — so  take  her,  doctor,  but  be 
patient  with  her  faults — she  is  very  dear  to  us,  and  we  feel  in 


OUT   IN   THE   STREETS.  2$ 

giving  her  to  you,  that  we  are  parting  from  our  greatest  earthly 
treasure.  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  man,  and  to  see  those  whom 
I  love  leave  my  hearth  makes  me  sad.  My  sister,  who  has  been 
away  from  me  so  long,  and  that  little  one  who  has  won  a  place 
in  my  heart,  and  then  my  daughter,  all  going 

Pete.  Kernel,  if  you  is  lonesome  when  dey  is  all  gone,  den 
I'll  go  and  stay  wid  ye. 

Col.  W.     Such  unparalleled  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Mrs.  B.  Brother,  we  are  not  leaving  you — we  will  all  be  near 
you,  but  each  of  us  will  have  a  home  of  our  own,  and  who  can 
be  more  thankful  for  that  than  they  who  have  been  homeless 
upon  the  streets. 

Pete.  I  jist  want  to  say  one  word  more  about  dis  t'ing  ob 
home.  I  hab  felt  about  as  happy  as  a  man  can  feel  widout 
hurtin"  him,  'cause  dese  folks  was  gittin'  a  home  ;  but  de  ole 
Kernel  dar,  stirred  up  some  feelin's  dat  I  thought  was  gone. 
Dar  was  an  ole  home  in  Norf  Car'lina  dat  is  now  gone.  My  ole 
mammy's  sleepin'  byde  Tar  ribber — some  ob  her  boys  are  dead, 
and  some  ob  "em  are  like  me,  kind  o*  scattered — and  when  you 
talk  about  breakin'  up  ole  homes,  it  hits  me. 

Col.  W.  I  must  say,  Pete,  you  have  more  feeling  than  I  gave 
you  credit  for— remember  kindly  an  old  mother,  and  love  your 
home,  however  humble.  We  must  separate,  and  leave  Myrtle 
in  the  old  home,  where  we  hope  the  future  may  be  all  sunshine. 
The  dark  clouds  have  all  passed  away,  and 

With  love  and  with  honor  may  ever  we  meet. 

The  dear  ones  we  found  there,  OUT  IN  THE  STREET. 

Nina.    Dr.  M.    Mrs.W.     Col.  W.    Mrs.  B.    Minnie.     Pete. 
F.  R.  c.  c.  L.  c.  L. 

CURTAIN. 


Who  Wouldn't  Be  Crazy 

By  KATHARINE  KAVANAUGH 

Comedy  in  three  acts.     Eight  men,  eight  women.     Time, 
two  and  one-half  hours. 

Scene:     One  simple  exterior. 

This  extraordinarily  gay  farce  is  as  new  and  smart 
and  frivolous  as  the  latest  Paris  hat,  and  as  old  in  its 
appeal  as  love  and  laughter;  and  is  admirably  suited 
to  high  schools  and  church  societies. 

Speedy  Marshall,  who  has  high-powered  cars  and  air- 
planes to  play  with,  while  evading  traffic  cops,  gets  him- 
self interned  in  an  asylum  for  mild  mental  cases.  His 
father  decides  to  let  him  stay  there  to  cure  him  of  his 
speed  mania.  Then  Lois  Meredith  trips  across  the  scene, 
followed  by  her  bevy  of  society  girls  who  are  planning 
an  entertainment  for  the  inmates.  Events  thereupon*  take 
an  unexpected  turn — it's  Speedy  who  turns  them — and 
exciting  action  follows,  fast  and  furious.  We  mention 
only  a  jewel  robbery  and  a  kidnaping.  The  interest  is 
tense,  each  act  works  up  to  a  splendid  climax,  and  there 
are  clever  lines  galore. 

The  parts  are  excellent  in  their  distribution  and  ap- 
peal. Speedy  himself,  the  lovely  Lois,  the  appealing 
Evelyn,  the  three  mischievous  debs,  Inmates  I  and  II — 
apparently  eccentric,  hugely  funny,  and  not  a  little  mys- 
terious when  no  one  is  around.  And  Pluribus,  the  col- 
ored boy,  is  in  love  with  Pendie,  his  chocolate-colored 
angel,  though  he  doesn't  get  much  peace  when  McCaf- 
ferty,  the  hard-boiled  traffic  cop,  is  looking  for  Speedy. 
Some  of  the  attractive  parts  are  excellently  adapted  to 
those  who  are  interested  in  dramatics,  but  who  can  give 
only  a  small  amount  of  time  to  study  and  rehearsal.  A 
success  as  soon  as  published,  this  play  has  broken  all 
records  in  winning  instant  popularity.  Everyone's  crazy 
about  it — and  who  wouldn't  be!  Professional  rights  re- 
served. Royalty  for  each  amateur  performance,  $10.00. 
Price,  50  cents. 

The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company 

CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS 


Ill  Explain  Everything 

By 
CLARK  WILLARD 

Comedy  in  three  acts.    Five  men,  five  women.     Time,  two 
and  one-quarter  hours. 

Scene:     One  simple  interior. 

Henry,  the  very  likable  cashier  of  a  bank  in  a  small 
town,  tries  to  crawl  out  of  an  awkward-looking  situa- 
tion by  telling  a  tactful  fib;  and  in  a  moment  of  mad- 
ness calls  on  a  trusted  friend,  Scott,  to  help  him  out. 
Scott  takes  it  upon  himself  to  explain  everything — and 
oh !  the  riot  that  follows !  Domestic  bombs  begin  to 
burst  in  the  air,  and  as  explanation  follows  explanation, 
mirthquakes  shake  the  house  with  laughter!  For  each 
explanation  involves  poor  Henry  just  a  little  deeper. 

The  parts  are  all  good,  including  Henry's  pretty  wife 
who  has  plenty  to  say  and  says  it;  a  girl  cousin  who 
has  even  more  to  say,  for  the  various  explanations  have 
almost  wrecked  her  romance;  a  girl  of  mystery;  a  lisp- 
ing sister;  an  amusing  woman  doctor  who  twists  Henry's 
spine  and  at  the  same  time  almost  twists  his  life  out 
of  joint;  a  rising  young  advertising  man,  who  certainly 
"rises"  to  the  attempts  to  explain  everything;  a  dignified 
trust  official ;  and  an  Englishman  who  isn't  too  bright, 
perhaps,  but  is  assuredly  funny!  And  woven  into  the 
play  are  various  romances,  absurd  complications,  and 
the  best  contrived  stage  business  we  have  seen  in  many 
a  long  day.  Professional  rights  reserved.  Royalty  for 
each  amateur  performance,  $10.00.  Price,  50  cents. 

The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company 

CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS 


Amusin'  Susan 

A  RURAL  COMEDY 

By  CAROL  MCMILLAN  REID 

Comedy  in  three  acts.     Six  men,   eight  'women. 
Scene:     One  interior. 

Here's  a  rural  play  that  deals  with  the  modern  farm, 
•with  its  automobiles,  radios,  pure-bred  stock,  and  young 
people  who  feel  the  lure  of  the  big  city.  Sue,  a  farm- 
house flapper,  has  felt  the  influence  of  the  city,  and 
dreams  that  a  gay,  exciting  life  awaits  her  there.  And 
so  she  scorns  her  country  lover,  Perry  Martin,  and 
turns  to  a  society  man  from  the  city.  But  a  series  of 
events  that  shows  her  the  spirit  of  Perry  Martin  also 
reveals  to  her  what  is  happening  in  her  own  heart,  and 
she  learns  the  difference  between  the  shoddy  lure  of  the 
city  and  the  enduring  appeal  of  country  life,  the  differ- 
ence between  the  false  thing  and  the  real  thing. 

Such  is  the  story  that  is  set  against  a  background  of 
rollicking  good  fun  that  goes  with  a  barn-raising  and  a 
barn  dance,  with  Hy  Jinks,  the  carpenter;  Venus,  the 
fat  girl,  in  love  with  love;  Pa  Banks  and  Ma  Banks;  a 
couple  of  country  kids  up  to  all  sorts  of  pranks;  a  city 
debutante,  a  country  fiddler,  and  others.  All  the  parts 
are  good,  exceptionally  well  drawn  and  true  to  life, 
and  the  whole  play  is  rare  good  fun  combined  with  a 
sound  message  that  goes  home  to  every  heart.  Profes- 
sional rights  reserved.  Royalty  for  each  amateur  per- 
formance, $10.00.  Price,  50  cents. 

The  Dramatic  Publishing  Company 

CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS 


Successful  One  Act  Plays 

A  COURT  COMEDY 

By  MARJORIE  BENTON  COOKE 

That  royal  scamp,  King  Charles  II,  haughty  Lady  Stuart,  and 
lovable,  irresponsible  Nell  Gwynne  form  the  cast  of  one  of  the 
brightest,  most  delightful  comedies  Miss  Cooke  has  ever  writ- 
ten. Stunning  when  played  in  costume,  it  has  also  scored  bril- 
liant successes  when  played  in  modern  clothes,  as  is  often  done 
now  with  this  type  of  play.  Originally  this  was  one  of  the 
plays  in  Dramatic  Episodes,  but  in  response  to  requests  from 
all  parts  of  the  country,  it  has  been  issued  in  separate  form. 
One  man,  two  women.  No  royalty  required. 

Price,   35  cents 

HOUSEHOLD  HINTS 

By  WEARE  HOLBROOK 

A  farcical  sketch  about  the  efforts  of  a  girl  to  capture  a  hus- 
band by  proving  to  him  how  profitably  she  can  follow  the 
Household  Hints  column.  She  shows  with  great  pride  her 
rustic  chair — on  which  the  young  man  tears  his  trousers.  And 
that  gives  her  a  chance  to  mend  the  trousers  with  her  new 
glue.  Which  she  does — and  _with  such  dire  results  that  the 
young  man  is  in  a  bad  way  indeed,  until  he  at  last  most  wit- 
tily extricates  himself  from  the  household.  Every  line  sparkles. 
Twenty  minutes  of  excellent  fun  1  For  two  men  and  two 
women.  No  royalty  required.  Price,  35  cents 

WHEN  LOVE  IS  YOUNG 

By  MARJORIE  BENTON  COOKE 

Two  mothers  scheme  to  bring  about  the  engagement  of  their 
respective  son  and  daughter  by  seeming  to  oppose  the  match ; 
and  a  provocative  scene  results,  alive  with  clever  lines.  An 
unexpected  turn  at  the  end  adds  just  the  right  touch  to  the 
romantic  conclusion.  Originally  printed  only  in  Dramatic 
Episodes,  this  is  now  available  in  separate  binding.  Three 
women,  one  man.  No  royalty  required.  Price,  35  cents 

THE  DUCHESS  BOUNCES  IN 

By  LUCY  KENNEDY  BROWN 

The  funniest  of  pantomimes,  for  from  six  to  nine  charac- 
ters, but  with  a  cast  flexible  enough  to  allow  almost  any  pro- 
portion of  men  and  women.  The  pantomime  is  arranged  as  a 
talking  movie,  with  the  Announcer  doing  the  loud-speaking 
while  Lady  Vera  and  Reginald  and  the  Duke — AND  the 
Duchess  ! — act  out  the  words  of  the  Announcer  in  the  funniest 
fashion  known  to  stunt-makers.  Easily  put  on,  this  is  excel- 
lent for  an  impromptu  evening,  for  stunt-night,  or  for  a  hilari- 
ous half-hour  on  a  program.  No  royalty  required. 

Price,   35  cents 


TWO  TABLES  OF  BRIDGE 

By  LUCY  KENNEDY  BROWN 

A  clever  comedy  offering  which  gives  a  pleasant  satire  on 
some  of  the  foibles  of  bridge-players,  and  which  will  be  en- 
joyed as  much  by  those  who  play  as  by  those  who  don't  The 
comedy  and  satire  are  woven  about  the  attempt  of  a  young 
bride  to  entertain  the  bridge  club  for  the  first  time,  with  a 
very  new  and  very  difficult  maid  to  help  her.  The  local  social 
dictator,  Mrs.  Pruitt,  tries  to  high-hat  the  bride  and  make 
things  miserable  for  her;  but  at  the  last  the  tables  are  turned 
upon  Mrs.  Pruitt  most  effectively.  The  play  is  alive  with 
witty  lines  and  shrewd  observations.  For  nine  women.  No 
royalty  required.  Price,  35  cents 

MANNERS  AND  MODES 

By  MARJORIE  BENTON   COOKE 

Women  in  a  hatshop,  trying  on  hats.  All  sorts  of  women, 
and  all  sorts  of  hats !  Some  of  the  hats  are  all  right,  and  so 
are  some  of  the  women.  Some  of  the  hats  are  not  all  right, 
and  some  of  the  women  are — funny,  to  say  the  least.  This  is 
one  of  Miss  Cooke's  most  actable  plays.  Easy  to  put  on,  yet 
far  more  effective  than  many  elaborate  efforts.  For  nine  women. 
No  royalty  required.  Price,  35  cents 

THE  GHOST  IN  THE  BOARDING 
SCHOOL 

By  OLGA  STEINER 

Three  boarding  school  girls  learn  that  a  new  girl  is  about 
to  arrive.  Irritated  by  hearing  the  newcomer  overpraised,  they 
decide  to  give  her  a  good  scare.  But  the  new  girl,  overhearing 
their  plans,  makes  a  few  of  her  own — and  when  they  all  get 
to  working  on  each  other  a  fine  panic  follows.  This  play,  ex- 
ceptionally easy  to  memorize,  can  be  prepared  with  little  effort, 
yet  gives  the  maximum  in  good  fun.  For  five  women.  No 
royalty  required.  Price,  25  cents 

IN  THE  SPRING  A  YOUNG 

MAN'S  FANCY 

By  WILL  RANSOM  SMITH 

Five  girls  are  seeing  Paris  with  their  chaperon.  Dicky,  one 
of  their  old  set  at  home,  arrives  in  Paris  and  comes  to  call 
on  them.  Without  being  particularly  aware  of  it,  he  proposes 
to  each  one  in  turn.  When  the  girls  discover  what  has  hap- 
pened, they  plan  a  revenge  in  which  the  punishment  fits  the 
crime.  Any  girl  would  love  to  have  one  of  the  seven  delight- 
ful and  well-balanced  parts  in  this  play ;  and  the  part  of  Dicky 
is  often  played  by  a  woman.  For  seven  women  and  one  man. 
Royalty,  $5.00.  Price,  25  cents 


Successful  Non-Royalty  Plays 

PA'S  PICNIC 

Rural  play  in  2  acts,  by  Adelaide  H.  Wyeth ;  6  men,  8  women 
(many  more  as  desired).  Time,  2  hours.  Scene:  Two  exteriors. — • 
Pa  tries  to  show  his  daughter's  college  friends  some  fun — and  suc- 
ceeds in  a  way  he  didn't  plan.  Price.  35c. 

THE  SILENT  DETECTIVE 

Drama  in  3  acts,  by  Effie  W.  Merriman;  6  men,  7  women.  Time, 
3*/2  hours. — All  the  parts  are  strong  in  their  dramatic  tangle  of 
hearts  and  purposes.  Price,  35c. 

Six  SHARPS,  ONE  FLAT 

Drama  in  4  acts,  by  Gaylord  and  Sanders ;  9  women,  6  men. 
Scene :  One  interior. — Six  girls  face  the  world  together.  A  bright 
play,  universally  approved.  Price,  3Sc. 

TREASURE  ISLAND 

Dramatization  in  5  acts  of  Stevenson's  novel,  by  Beulah  Cham- 
berlain;  14  men,  1  woman  (which  may  be  taken  by  a  man).  Time, 
an  entire  evening. — This  play  keeps  all  the  thrills  of  the  story. 
Price,'  35c  . 

UNCLE  BEN  DRAKE 

Comedy-drama  in  4  acts,  by  Mrs.  J.  C.  Fiffield;  7  men,  4  women. 
Time,  2l/2  hours.  Scene:  Two  easy  interiors.— Uncle  Ben  captures 
every  community  where  he  appears.  Price,  3Sc. 

WATCH  MY  SMOKE 

Comedy-drama  in  3  acts,  by  Katharine  Kavanaugh ;  7  men,  4 
women.  Time,  2}4  hours. — A  comedy  of  love  gets  involved  with 
mystery  and  an  exciting  time  is  had  by  all  1  Price,  35c. 

WHAT  BECAME  OF  PARKER 

Farce-comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Maurice  Hageman ;  8  men,  4  women. 
Time,  2l/t  hours. — A  sober  business  man  tries  to  outwit  his  wite — 
but  she  outwits  him,  until  he  disappears.  Then — ?  A  satisfying  play. 
Price,  3Sc. 

FOUR-LEAVED  SHAMROCK 

Irish  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  C.  J.  Hamilton ;  3  men,  4  women. 
Time,  \l/2  hours. — This  heart-stirring  comedy  is  a  sweet  play  of  old 
Ireland.  Price,  2Sc. 

THE  GAYRUSANS'  LEGACY 

Drama  in  3  acts  ;  13  women,  8  men,  3  children.  Time,  2  hours. — 
A  philosophizing  washwoman  inherits  a  thousand  dollars.  Romantic 
and  intensely  human.  Price,  35c. 

HICK'RY  FARM 

Comedy  drama  in  2  acts.  6  men,  2  women,  Time,  lyi  hours. — • 
A  charming  play  of  rural  life,  on  the  order  of  "The  Old  Homestead." 
Price,  35c. 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN,  OR  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE 

Irish  play  in  4  acts.  12  men,  4  women.  Time,  2%  hours. — One 
of  the  most  popular  Irish  plays  ever  written,  with  strong  and  con- 
trasting parts.  Price,  25c. 


Successful  Non-Royalty  Plays 

HURLEY'S  RANCH 

Drama  in  3  acts,  by  Anthony  E.  Wills;  10  men,  4  women. 
Scene  :  One  interior. — Cowboys,  soldiers,  Indians — good  fun  and 
high  romance.  Price,  35c. 

CHEERFUL  LIAR 

Farcical  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  John  A.  Fraser.  Characters,  5 
men,  3  women.  Plays  2  hours. — A  Cheerful  Liar  makes  cheer 
for  all.  A  standard  comedy  that  always  succeeds.  Price,  35c. 

CORINNE  OF  THE   ClRCUS 

Romantic  comedy-drama  in  3  acts,  by  Katharine  Kavanaugh ;  5 
men,  2  women  and  extras.  Time,  2  hours. — -The  rings  of  the 
circus  roll  through  country  lanes  to  the  Ring  of  Romance.  Price,  35c. 

COUSIN  GENE 

Comedy  in  3  acts,  by  Grace  Delaney  Goldenburg;  11  men. 
Time,  2  hours. — College  boys,  disguised  as  women,  raise  a  rumpus 
of  fun  and  comic  love-making.  Price,  35c. 

A  CRAZY  IDEA 

Comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Maurice  Hageman;  10  men,  8  women. 
Time,  2l/i  hours.  Scene:  One  interior. — A  rooming  house  is 
visited  by  a  cyclone  of  roomers  and  complications.  Price,  3Sc. 

DIAMOND  CHIP 

Ranch  play  in  4  acts,  by  Katharine  Kavanaugh;  11  men,  4 
women.  Time,  2  hours. — An  excellent  blend  of  tense  situations, 
pathetic  scenes,  rollicking  comedy.  Price,  35c. 

LONESOME  MILE 

Western  comedy-drama  in  2  acts,  by  George  M.  Rosener ;  7  men, 
2  women.  Time,  1J4  hours.  Scene:  One  simple  interior. — A  pow- 
erful romantic  drama  with  crooks,  comedy — and  Clorinda  !  Price,  3Sc. 

MERRY  COBBLER 

Comedy-drama  in  4  acts,  by  J.  A.  Fraser;  6  men,  5  women  and 
children.  Time,  1J4  hours. — An  easy  play  for  amateurs,  dramatic 
and  human.  Price,  35c. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  TRAIN 

Comedy  in  2  acts,  by  Maurice  Hageman ;  4  men,  3  women. 
Time,  2  hours.  Scene :  One  interior. — Three  pairs  of  newly- 
weds  and  a  cranky  Uncle.  Nuf  sed !  Price,  3Sc. 

A  MODERN  ANANIAS 

Farcical  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  J.  A.  Fraser ;  4  men,  4  women. 
Time,  3  hours.  Scene:  One  interior;  one  exterior. — Behold  Ly- 
sander — Prince  of  Liars ! — making  trouble  for  others  and  more 
for  himself.  Price,  3Sc. 

A  NOBLE  OUTCAST 

Drama  in  4  acts,  by  J.  A.  Fraser;  4  men,  3  women.  Time,  3 
hours.  Scene :  One  exterior ;  2  interiors  (often  merely  indicated  by 
rearrangements  of  furniture).  Often  called  the  best  play  for  ama- 
teurs. Intensely  interesting.  Price,  35c. 

NUGGET 

Western  play  in  4  acts,  by  C.  Ulrich ;  7  men,  3  women.  Time, 
2l/t  hours. — Full  of  unexpected  ups  and  downs,  tears  and  laughter. 
Price,  3Sc. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000033108     2 


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